


Nightmare Radio

by PaperHatCollection



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 19:28:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5838037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperHatCollection/pseuds/PaperHatCollection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night of the fire, the factory should have been empty. A what if as to the event that unfolded to result in the fire of the factory that created the very radios Maxwell speaks through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmare Radio

It was only a handful of days into production. A little under one hundred radios had been created thus far, and they were behind schedule already.  

The factory was abuzz with workers and machinery. Voices shouted to each other across the walkways between the interwoven metal cranks, gears, and pistons that filled the factories work space. Little of the machinery found in the factory was standard in the creation of your average radio, but then again, this wasn't your average radio.  

Unlike some other companies, every single part of the radio created in this one factory. From the simplistic shell to the complex internal mechanisms, and even the thin mesh to go over the speaker was created and woven within these factories walls. The workers were subjected to daily searches of their person and personal belongings to ensure they wasn't robbing the company of any of its products or secrets. It was no wonder the workers were sour about their jobs, really, and it would be no wonder what motivated one of the workers to begin the events that would unfold before the sun had set.  

The companies product, the Voxola PR-76, or simply nicknamed the Voxola by an intense national marking campaign, offered revolutionary sound and reception quality unlike anything the world had ever seen before. It was said that listening to a voice on this radio was like being in the same room as the speaker themselves. Such a marvel of technology could not simply be _thrown_ together like so many other companies preferred. No, each radio the Voxola Radio Company produced was essentially custom made for the person it was intended to reach. Each radio was ordered before it was even considered to be made, do to the rather.... scarce material that was essential for the radios functionality.  

It was said that workers in the east wing of the factory had a tendency to go insane. Some would go missing, never to be found again. The higher-ups claimed that the man (or even women, hired during the war and kept when it began apparent that some of them were more apparent then the men that came back home) had quit, left their jobs and gone home. Yet rumors spread around the factory, rumors that the worker had seen something they shouldn't have and been 'dealt' with. Some even claimed to have seen a strange, darkened liquid carried to the east wing from the bosses office under a sheet, only getting a glimpse before it was covered again.  

Currently a well dressed man paced the factory, juxtaposed to the workers around him. His walking cane with its golden head and walrus tusk head clicked the floor with each step he took, warning the workers of their bosses approach. He had always been prone to worry, to pacing. he had micromanaging each step of his company to avoid any unfortunate hiccups. But today? He seemed extra twitchy, muttering to himself and questioning employs about production, glancing at the watch laid in silver upon his wrist as though he had somewhere he needed to be quite soon.  

This mans name was Robert Wagstaff. A business man first and foremost, and a successful one at that. Very successful, in fact. Suspiciously so. He'd attempted to launch a series of absurd products in his earlier business days, products that had gotten him laughed out of towns. Yet one day he seemed to have struck gold with his (rather unusual) radio company, possessing a surprising knowledge on electronic devices he had never truly shown before. Some claimed that he had stolen another mans work, that he was a scam artist, a liar and cheat.  

After making triply sure everything was in working order, Wagstaff hurried back to his office, pausing only a moment to speak to his secretary and inform her that he wanted no interruptions while he got some important work done. She barely gave him a glance, having gotten used to such behavior on a daily basis.  

Wagstaff closed the door firmly behind him, adjusting his tie before turning and observing his office. Gray walls surrounded three sides, the darker paint stopping exactly three quarters up to transition to a lighter gray that made the ceiling appear taller then it actually was. The fourth wall was taken up by wall to wall darkened oak bookshelves filled with dusty old tomes and modern literature, as well as the finical history of his company. There had once been a time when reading was his greatest passion, but as of now he could not recall the last time he'd ever opened any of the pages of those books he loved so much. 

The sounds of his footsteps was swallowed by the purple, embodied carpet that stretched across his floor like ink. Looking at the dark lines woven in the fabric, the strange twists and turns, sent a chill up Wagstaffs spine, for he knew those marks had not been there when the carpet was first installed. He simply turned his eyes away from them, instead making his way to his desk in the center of the room. It was a great slab of polished dark mahogany that looked as though it would get fingerprints along its surface if you so much thought of laying a hand on it. Laying on s simple black mat near its upper leftward edge was a small radio, one of the first his company had created. In fact, it was almost a prototype of the Voxola itself.  

"Say pal..." 

Wagstaff jolted, holding up a paper to briefly hide his face before peaking out at the radio, gulping and putting it back on the desk. A chuckle came from the radio, making a blush spread across the mans face which he tried to rub away. He was always doing that, reacting violently to even the smallest things that could and did startle him. 

"I don't bite." Maxwell said, his voice like honey flowing from the speakers. "It's undignified. Besides, how could I bite you from over the radio anyways? It's ridiculous. Now, onto business, I hear there's been some sort of problem with production?" he asked, though his tone suggested he knew for certain that something was wrong, that he would find a way to bite Wagstaff's head clean off if he had to. 

Wagstaff gulped, fiddling with paper that he stacked and straightened repeatedly to avoid looking at the radio, planning his words carefully. He'd learned long ago not to be brash with the voices from the radio. "Well, we've hit a little... hitch with the fuel you've sent us." he began. "For some reason, the workers... can't handle it in large qualities. They, they go _insane_ Maxwell." he explained, fiddling with his tie. "And some of them... we can't _find_ them, they've just disappeared into thin air!" He gave a wave with his hand as though to express his point in greater detail, only to pull it back when he remembered he was talking to a radio. 

Maxwell laughed. More of a chuckle really, with something raspy and crackling like static joining in the background. "Of _course_ they have pal, you didn't think I called the stuff 'nightmare' fuel for the fun of it, did ya?" There was a pause, the sound of something like a match coming through and suddenly Wagstaff could have sworn he smelt the smoke of a cigar. Although he had never smoked a day in his life, he recognized the smell from when his dearly departed father used to hack out a lung from the use of such things. "As for the ones you can't find, well, I considered them an early payment for all the _help_ I've given you." 

Images appeared in Wagstaff's head, of the island from his nightmares and the employs who had gone missing. Bleeding, starving, running. Spiders, far to large to be _real_ , hounds giving chase, trees that came alive to defend their brethren. He'd been shown them all before, but he'd thought he'd long since he  no longer had to face the dangers of the world he'd only glimpsed. But know he doubted it, he doubted it very much. "Y-You couldn't have, you said-" 

"I said I wouldn't take _you_ if you did this for me, pal." Maxwell's voice practically oozed with his smug attitude.  "What did you _think_ this factory, all these radios were even for anyways? I wasn't going to _waste_ my time making one little mortal rich, was I? Or did you trick yourself into thinking that so you wouldn't have to face the consequences for a little longer?" Maxwell asked, his voice carrying an underlying tone that said that he very much knew the answer to that question.  

Wagstaff was standing and pacing the room before he even knew what he was doing, running a hand through his hair and trying to think this through. This was bad, very bad. He'd never intended _this_ , of all the possible scenarios he'd convinced himself of he'd never allowed himself to think of this one. He'd known it was coming, but he'd ignored it and hoped it would go away. The pressure from Maxwell to keep pushing the marking, to sell so many products, for everything to be _perfec_ _t_. He'd known from the beginning that Maxwell wanted _something,_ but he never allowed himself to think it was _this_.  

"So... everyone-" he paused, turning back to the radio, which sat still atop his desk. "Everyone that buys one of my radios, they'll... you will..." he shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Maxwell, I c-can't-" 

"You will." Maxwell's voice easily cut through Wagstaff's stutter. "And trust me, I will be a bit picker then 'everyone' that buys one of these radios. I'll have a nation to pick through and find exactly who I want for my little games. And if you even _think_ of trying to stop this _now_?" What almost appeared to be blank ink, but clearer and moving with a mind of its own, began to seep out of the radios grill, pooling on the desk and dripping to the floor as its tendrils joined the pattern marked into the carpet by the substance many times before. "I might have to just drop my end of the deal, and let Them take you along with everyone else."  

Something rose from the fuel, stretching and forming in front of Wagstaff's eyes. Yet no matter what angle it turned, how Wagstaff looked upon it's form, the beast appeared as flat as a shadow. This one was tall, with long spikes and a gaping maw full of sharpened teeth that snapped shut and opened again in warning, lunging at Wagstaff with such ferocity that he barley had a fraction of a second to throw his body back, to avoid the attack. It's jaws smashed together where he had been merely a moment before, the whole thing disappearing into the light around it. Wagstaff breathed a moment later, his heart beating in his chest from the shock. The entire room seemed brighter, warmer, now that the creature was gone.  

"Trust me pal. You don't want to help these puppets." Maxwell began, his voice unchanged from what it had been when the conversation began. "You should just stay here, with your fancy clothing and your _safe_ home, and leave them to _rot_. Over, and over, and over again. Because I assure you, buddy, that you will join them if you even _think_ of affecting production in any way." 

The radio clicked itself off barley a moment after his last words, leaving Wagstaff alone and on the edge of a heart attack. It took him barley a moment to scramble for his coat, leaving his office in a hurry and informing his secretary that he had to leave for the day, and that he wasn't sure he would be back. It wasn't until he'd gotten his private driver and climbed inside that even questioned where he was headed. He informed Klaud to take him home for now, glancing out the darkened window every five minutes as though he expected to see a flash of those shadows following him home. Yet the ride was almost peaceful, the day bright and blue without any sign of distress. He almost felt foolish. Almost. 

Once he got home, he wasn't actually sure what he planned on doing. Distancing himself from the factory certainly helped his peace of mind, though he had no work to busy himself or any particular hobbies to catch up on. He felt sure he should do something to take his mind off the days events, and yet nothing came to him. He simply headed upstairs to his private study, trailing a hand along the carvings in his wooden railing. It was only when he got to the upper rooms he even realized he was still carrying around his walking stick, setting it against a table holding a potted plant and immediately feeling like all the energy had been drained from him. He seemed to move so slowly after, though he couldn't quite place why.  

Was this right? 

The thought hit him so suddenly and completely that Wagstaff grounded himself to a complete stop, blinking at the space in front of him. He... was he really going to do this? Sacrifice to many innocent people, men, women... children, just so he could he could continue to keep his own back safe? When had he become so... selfish? Was it the wealth, the parties, the fancy foods? Or was it the threat, the fear, the primal desire to keep himself free at all costs? When had.... when had he stopped seeing the people around him as _people_ , as having a life separated from him? When had he stopped being _human_.  

He didn't know what he was going to do, and maybe that’s what kept him safe in the end. He scooped his walking stick back into his hands, turning in a hurry to call Ivan... a far more 'specialized' driver of his. He so rarely had Ivan pick him up, only when he felt the need to go somewhere in secrecy, when he had to count on someone not to talk. He instructed Ivan to take him to one of his companies warehouses first, collecting the needed materials. They weren’t that hard to find, and he really only needed a small box he slipped into his pocket and a large square container kept by some of the companies motor cars.   

After that he had Ivan take him to the factory and leave him there. Ivan didn't say a word the entire ride, and Wagstaff suspected he knew exactly what was going on. Even though, in some small part of his mind, he hid and pretended he didn't. Once he reached the factory he double checked nobody saw him enter, calling up the night guards from his office to inform them they wouldn't be needed for the night. After that he simply waited for everyone to go home.  

His footsteps echoed through the empty factory, unnaturally loud in the silence. The container was heavy, requiring both of his hands to carry and causing it to bump repeatedly against his leg as he walked. His cane made it difficult to hold, but he got the since it would end up slowing him down to let go. Maxwell had given him this cane to help him get around, and Wagstaff was only just now getting how true that was. He easily cut his way to the East wing, passing half and nearly finished radios on the way, among the few fully finished ones that had yet to be packed up. 

"Say pal..." 

Wagstaff jerked to stare at one of the radios, before quickening his pace. He could already feel the others presence, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge. Something in the back of his mind was screaming at him that this was a bad idea, that he should turn back now. He didn't listen. 

"Just _what_ do you think your doing?"  

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the black liquid of nightmare fuel start to drip from one of the radios, moving to pool onto the ground. He moved to adjust the container, running across the factory floor to a large cylinder barley taller then he was and pulling off a circular plug near the top, uncapping the container and dumping the whole of it in. The gasoline hit the fuel and seemed to simmer when they made contact with each other, fusing into one liquid near instantly. From what few tests they had been able to run, the fuel seemed to take on the attributes of any other liquid it was mixed with.  

The hissing started up just as he lit the first match, the sound of something travlin fast across the metal walkway approaching him as he tossed the match inside, throwing himself to the side. There was a sound of something hitting the metal container, then all the air seemed to be briefly sucked behind him before a heat wave burst forth, a loud WHOOSH filling the air as the fuel caught on fire. 

Wagstaff coughed, staggering up to turn and face the growing inferno, gulping as the fire jumped from machine to machine. But more then that were the shadows that hide from the fire as they reached for him, large clawed hands that he couldn't out run, no matter how hard he tried. 


End file.
